


this house is full of faith.

by xenoamorist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Demon Possession Aftermath, Domestic, F/F, Healing, Rape Parallels, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenoamorist/pseuds/xenoamorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the little things, the return to normalcy, the reclamation of <em>yes</em> that heals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this house is full of faith.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twoskeletons (Las)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/gifts).



> I think Las requested Anna/Amelia a million years ago for a femslash fic prompt... this has been sitting on my hard drive since April 4, 2012, apparently, and I figured it was about time to post it with minimal edits. Enjoy, Las ♥

> _this house is full of my mess_  
>  this house is full of mistakes  
>  this house is full of madness  
>  this house is full of fight 
> 
> — kate bush, “get out of my house”

You were never as religious as he was.

You went to church on Sundays in your pretty little dress, because that’s what momma told you good girls do, and when you went to college, you still wore that tiny golden cross around your neck. Like some kind of medal, like some kind of talisman, and you wore it even as you lay naked and sweaty, pressed up against a man who wasn’t your husband and never grew to be your husband.

You kept the cross around your neck even as you began to have doubts. You always had doubts, really, but then momma said _hush_ , and your brother said _hush_ , and your daddy said, _It’s all right, baby. God has a plan for you._

And that assuages you, at least for a while. God has a plan for you, and it’s a simple plan: Get married. Have a child. Be a good mother, a good wife; fulfill your duty to society, and die peacefully in your sleep.

God does not tell you His plan for your husband.

❧

You can see your husband in your daughter’s eyes.

Your daughter has always looked like you: same blonde hair, same fair skin, same slim body. She is your child, born of your womb, and your body leaves its whispers on her flesh like smoke on ivory.

The dinner table is too big. You say grace, but you don’t mean it.

Your girl is growing up now. The light breathes shadows that underline the curves of her limbs, the line of her waist, the gentle swell of her chest like high tide stroking the shore. She will turn thirteen soon.

“A boy grabbed me at school today.”

Your heart stops.

You saw a darkness in your husband’s eyes, something blacker than the perfect roundness of his pupils, something that beckoned to you, something that wanted to draw you in.

But you’re claustrophobic. You stood on the edge and looked in, saw something much bigger than yourself, something that you couldn’t ever touch or articulate for fear of it burning your skin. And you stepped back, ran from it, called it craziness, called it absurd, ignored the way it grew and expanded into some kind of chamber with a never-seen monster in the middle.

You’re claustrophobic.

You couldn’t save your husband.

And now that chasm is growing behind your daughter’s eyes.

You don’t really know what happened to your husband, don’t exactly know what it means to be possessed by a heavenly force that is so much more than yourself. You imagine the darkness growing day by day until it consumes her, and you’re standing at the lip of that chasm and you’re too scared to dive in.

And how can you even take that breath and poise yourself before that dive? How can you tell your daughter that her body is hers and hers alone when God has already said that it’s not, has _shown_ you that it’s not? How can you tell your daughter that she controls those boundaries when your daughter has already surrendered control to her Lord her God her Savior—?

You wish your husband were here. Maybe he could explain.

You don’t know what to tell her. You contemplate letting that twist in your gut choke you, keep you quiet. But every moment of silence deepens the hurt around your daughter’s eyes, and you know that you must speak.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and then you add, your voice trembling, “No one is allowed to touch you without being invited to.”

Her eyes linger on yours for a moment.

“I don’t want to be touched,” she says, and then she looks down and finishes her peas.

You hope she doesn’t see the tear that rolls down your cheek.

❧

She arrives in a flurry of feathers and in whispers of a world unseen.

“I am not like other angels.”

You, of course, don’t believe her.

It’s autumn and the leaves have gone gold. She’s standing on your doorstep as if she belongs there, and what strikes you the most about her is the way space redefines itself around her: the door doesn’t frame her—she frames the door, her body a pillar, as if her absence would collapse corners and shake your house until it falls. Autumn’s fire dims itself behind the cinnabar-red of her hair, and you can’t see it, but you know those copper strands tangle themselves with trapped ultraviolet. You know, even without knowing how you know, that the shine on her cheek is the brush of a cirrus cloud imparting its resplendence on her, as if preparing her for you.

(You wonder who this body is. By her very existence, she must be someone’s daughter.)

“What do you want?”

Your voice trembles far too much for your own comfort.

“I am here to answer your daughter’s prayers.”

Your hand flies to the cross around your neck, and you tumble it between your fingers, then clutch it hard until the edges dig deep into the palm of your hand. 

_Get away from my house_ , you think. She steps easily over the salt lining the groove of the door, her face serene, her eyes unblinking.

“Mommy? Who is it?”

Your stomach drops and you turn, your hair whipping over your shoulder. Your daughter’s standing there, face half curious, half fearful. The angel crouches down, four fingers brushing against the hardwood floor, and gazes into your daughter’s face.

“Hello, Claire. I am Anael.”

And your daughter’s face breaks into a smile like you haven’t seen in ages.

❧

You watch, arms crossed over your chest, as the angel pushes your daughter on the swingset in the backyard, their peals of laughter bright like little silver bells dancing over the autumn breeze. Your daughter hasn’t laughed in front of you in what feels like months. Your skin crawls. You bring your thumb to your lips and let your nail graze against your teeth as the world grows dim, becomes a pinprick of copper and a spot of gold.

Your daughter jumps off the swings, the chains a black arc twisting through the air, and her landing sends dry leaves flying up all around her. You walk over to the swingset, your face still stern.

“I think that’s enough for today,” you say, then give your daughter a little pat. “Run inside and set the table. I’m going to have a word with Anael.”

Your daughter’s eyes—perfect copies of your own—dart over to yours, and then to the angel’s; she nods and goes inside, pulling the glass doors shut behind her.

The angel stands and brushes off her pants. You take a step closer to her and breathe in the scent of sunlight.

“What are you doing here?”

The angel tilts her head up, and you’d find the gaze haughty, proud, if not for how natural it is, how it makes you shrink, how it reminds you that she is, after all, something so much more than you.

“Healing the wounds that my brother left behind.”

You let out a snort.

“And whose daughter are you stealing now?”

And now the angel laughs—throws her head back, lets her shoulders fall, lets the sound flow freely. She looks back down at you and smiles, wistfully.

“This is my own body, remade for me and me alone. I am the only one within it, and I am nobody’s child but God’s.”

She takes a step closer to you, and the space around her burns.

“Heaven without Michael is in too much chaos to miss my presence. I choose to be here.”

The glass doors slide open, and your daughter peeks out.

“Are we gonna make chicken tonight?”

“Yes, dear,” you call back. The angel reaches her hand out and tilts her head.

“Let’s go inside,” she says.

You refuse her hand and go in alone.

❧

The angel helps you bake chicken and carrots, helps you make hot, gooey cinnamon apples, helps you take the dinner rolls to the table, helps you fill a pitcher with ice water. Your daughter takes to her like a shadow, tracing her footsteps, and something inside you aches.

You don’t say grace, and the angel doesn’t either.

Dinner passes quietly, with no words more meaningful than the way your daughter sneaks glances at the angel, and the angel smiles at her. You’re not hungry, but you clean your plate like you’ve told your daughter to do all these years.

You’re doing the dishes and your daughter’s working on her homework when the angel comes up beside you, her elbow brushing against yours. She grabs the other sponge and gives you a small nod.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says. There isn’t a single line on her face—how old is she? She’s in her mid-twenties maybe, and yet she’s thousands of years old. Her eyes are bright—bright with youth, bright with the starlight of a million ageless galaxies.

You step aside.

“Thank you,” she says, and you’re not sure how to respond.

❧

A month later and you’re still not used to the angel’s presence.

“You don’t have to be on edge all the time,” the angel says, her apron dusted with flour, as she mixes your daughter’s favorite cookie dough. “I won’t hurt you, or your daughter.”

Rage, viscous and visceral, bubbles up in your gut, and you turn on her, jab a finger at her chest. She sets down the bowl.

“You won’t hurt me? You—angels, demons, all of you—have done _nothing_ but hurt us—” You ball your hands into fists, and the words fly out of you. “What would you know,” you spit, “of surrendering control of your body, of watching yourself do horrible, awful things, things you’d never even dream of doing? What would you know of watching as your own hand strikes your child? What the _hell_ do you know about any of that? You just—steal bodies—wreck _lives_ —”

You expect her to raise her voice—to tell you to hush as they always do, to tell you to count your blessings, to tell you to smile, to tell you to worry about other, more important things—but instead, she embraces you, gently, as if drawing a curtain around you.

“I’m sorry,” she says, softly, sincerely, “that you were dragged into this.”

The rest of the words die in your throat, leaving you with just the sound of your heartbeat ringing in your ears.

_Da-dum—da-dum—da-dum—_

You allow yourself to relax into her.

❧

The world changes around you in tiny, almost imperceptible ways.

The sun is a little brighter. You take less time getting out of bed. The cups your daughter sets all over the house—even though you continuously remind her to take them to the sink—are always back, sparkling clean, in their shelves. (Your daughter squeezes past you, grabs a cup, fills it with water, takes two sips, then sets it on the living room table and forgets about it as she darts outside to play. You know it’s not her.) You sleep better at night. Dinner takes half as long to make. You get used to a perpetually hot kettle of tea. 

But it’s only when you unlock the door one day and step over the threshold, salt line still undisturbed, and call out “I’m home”, expecting a flash of red as a response—it’s only then that you know something’s changed.

❧

Rain drums against the roof, a million heartbeats thundering over your head. Claire is at school, and you worry whether the umbrella you’ve packed for her will keep her dry. Anael steps into the living room, a steaming mug of tea in each hand; she sets one down before you, her hair tumbling over her shoulder.

“Chamomile,” she says, her eyes pools of grey light, and you smile at her.

“Thank you.”

She sits next to you. Her weight sinks into the couch and pulls you closer to her, like a planet pulling a comet into orbit, like a magnetic line drawing a bird north, and, at that moment, something clicks into place: two tectonic plates dragging together; the needle of a record player sliding into the groove of vinyl.

You pick up the mug, your hands trembling, and take a sip. Your breaths are coming out short, and your heart flutters against your chest, a dragonfly roped to your ribs.

You set the mug down and rest your hands against your thighs before you turn.

Her profile is sharp against the blue-grey behind the sliding glass door, and even in this dim light, you can see every strand of her hair, can see the way the light collects in her eyes as if it gravitates to the light within her. You’ve never seen skin as clear as hers, smooth like the petals of a daisy, and your fingers twitch against your thighs. She is slight but not fragile; she is the might of a rolling avalanche hidden beneath twenty layers of snow.

You know. Of course you know.

And so you part your lips and say, “I love you.”

She turns. You’re shaking, your whole body trembling, and you don’t know until you feel the tears against your hands that you’re crying. You’re crying, _pitter-patter_ like the rain, and the words tumble out of your mouth like a frenzied mantra: _I love you. I love you. I love you._ Like a prayer, like a hymn, something visceral and gut-wrenching that bubbles up from a place deep in your soul that you thought you’d lost.

She cups your cheek in her hand, and her lips are sweet against yours, chamomile and jasmine and a touch of lemon, her breath crisp like ozone, hot like sunsets. You close your eyes, your lashes brushing against hers, and you feel her smiling against you.

“I love you too,” she whispers, straight into your heart, sending shivers down your spine, and she laughs as your shivers resonate in her. “I always have.”

You reach your hands out, experimentally, unsure—the shape of her flesh is the shape of your flesh, familiar and yet entirely unfamiliar, and you stroke the curve of her waist, reach up to brush against her chest, rising and falling with her breaths. 

She unbuttons her blouse, shrugs it off so that your fingers touch rough lace, and you do the same. She places your hands on her hips, and you tug at her pants, reveal her, and she does the same to you. Her lips rest in the valley behind your clavicle, and she kisses you there as if opening rivers to fill that hollowness. You don’t know if her lips are undoing dams or if they’re damning you in themselves; your momma would know, oh yes she would, and your daddy would have words to say, but you don’t. You have no words but tiny sighs and something that sounds like a whimper, and she pauses, looks up at you.

It takes the rest of your finesse to nod yes, to _breathe_ yes, and when she kisses you again, it’s the unreal brightness of an aurora, and you lose yourself in her.

Her fingers follow the gentle curve of your flesh and linger in the dip of your navel; she is Pygmalion coaxing you from marble, her breaths the breaths that illuminate you, and when her lips meet yours again, you realize you’re alive. You realize you’re trembling and you can’t explain it; you lace your fingers through her hair and pull her closer, and you don’t know if what strikes between you is static or a stray spark of lightning that hitched a ride down from Heaven.

She buries her face in the curve of your neck, plants a kiss there before she travels down and kisses the plane of your chest, kisses your breastbone, and how could a creature of Heaven know so much about flesh? She coaxes sighs and moans from you, drinks you in and palms the small of your back when you arch forward and drive yourself closer to her.

 _That’s it_ , she murmurs as your moans grow louder, as your whole body writhes, and this loss of control would scare you—the way your body moves as if it’s not your own, the way you forget that the hands clutching the cushions are your own—but she traces circles on your back, grounds you, and you’re—

You’re okay. You’re okay. You throw your head back and let your mouth fall open in a cry, and it’s all you, only you that sounds.

 _That’s it_ , she whispers again into the hollow of your flesh, and you shudder and press the back of your hand against your mouth, your teeth digging into your flesh as you muffle your moans, and she reaches up with her other hand and holds on to your bucking hips.

You allow yourself to go limp, and you lie there, quiet, drawing deep breaths into lungs that are only yours; exhaling from lips that speak only the words you choose to utter, only the _yes_ that you choose to give; your hand follows only your command as it entwines itself with hers.

She brings herself back up to you and cradles you, and you breathe in the scent of her, breathe in that unreal perfume, and you laugh. Your soul still holds spots gouged deep with darkness, and those spots will never be gone, but they’re healing. They’re fading, being replaced with her light—with _your_ light.

Your angel holds out her arm, and you draw her in close for another kiss.


End file.
